I was distracted by the arrival of the Waddingtons: mother, father and son. I’d seen the boy in church and couldn’t help glancing in his direction slightly more often than necessary. He was about the same age as me or perhaps a year or two older and, while not classically handsome, he was quite striking, with high cheekbones, a ruddy, healthy complexion and an expressive face that seemed to switch from sulk to smile in an instant.

‘Good morning, I’m Captain Waddington,’ the father said. ‘This is my wife, Janey, and my son, Christopher.’ The captain had the demeanour of an Air Force hero; the moustache clipped within an inch of its life, the upright bearing and his precise manner of speaking were impressive, even terrifying, and I would later come to understand how difficult it must have been for Kit to have such a father, or for Mrs Waddington to have such a husband. She was pretty, with a sweet, apologetic smile, but paper-pale, and looked as though she might blow away in the slightest breeze.

‘Call me Kit. Everyone else does, except my father,’ the boy said, with that teasing grin I would come to know so well. Dark hair flopped over his face, except when he flicked it back, which was often. I longed to have more time to talk to him, but almost immediately after that more people arrived and I was called away on coats duty.

Later, I saw Kit chatting to some older ladies who seemed utterly charmed, hanging on his every word, mesmerised by the way he spoke with such animation, his hands flying to illustrate every point, his face mobile and expressive, his eyes wide and alert. As the party drew to a close I saw him join a group of younger people, the Timpson twins and another boy of the same sort of age, who had been introduced as Robert. They were sharing a joke and seemed to be having so much fun that now, for perhaps the first time since arriving in the village, I began to think living here wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Just as other people were beginning to drift away home, Miss Calver appeared, late as always. She must have been in her seventies but seemed ageless; a small, wiry person, bursting with energy, oblivious to the niceties of fashion or what they used to call ‘polite society’. I never saw her in a dress or skirt. Trousers and a well-worn tweed jacket were her preferred garb for all occasions, and this one was no exception, although she did remove the denim cap as she entered the doorway, folding it in two and stuffing it into one of her plentiful pockets.